


The curious mind

by GrumpyTsundereShipper



Category: Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: Badass England, British Empire, M/M, Pirate England, scary england
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-10-03 05:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17278055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpyTsundereShipper/pseuds/GrumpyTsundereShipper
Summary: America is curious to why many countries seem to have an underlying caution of England despite the stuffy gentleman’s harmless nature. After a few unbelievable stories America decides to see for himself.—UNDER HEAVY CONSTRUCTION PLEASE BEAR WITH ME—-Pirate England fic





	1. Chapter 1

America had always noted England’s common habits, whether tapping the side of his face faintly when thinking or swirling his tea to ‘infuse the flavor into the water’. By now America had accepted that Spain would instinctively flinch whenever England tapped the side of his face but now it was just getting ridiculous. 

England had been sporting a pair of worn leather gloves that day when America finally decided to confront this weirdly shared trait of flinching when England did certain things. It had been when England mindlessly tugged at the hem of one of the leather gloves that France had gone as pale as Japan and lunged for the nearest piece of furniture. England didn’t look surprised but the fact America wasn’t clued in on this trend was irritating him. 

“G-going o-old school today England?” France sneered from behind the sofa, gesturing at the leather gloves. 

England raised his eyebrows a little but answered as if his conversation partner wasn’t behind the sofa “it’s cold and all of my gloves have gone missing Frog.” Shrugging, England left, dutifully keeping to his German enforced schedule. 

“That’s it, come on dudes what’s the deal?!” An obnoxious American accent stretched out, grasping the French and Spaniards’ attention. 

“Ohoho what is it Alfred?” The perverted Frenchman chuckled back before mumbling under his breath, “I’d better bring my rose dagger tomorrow, can’t risk it.” A green eyed Spaniard nodded in agreement. 

“That! You guys are being so weird, why in the flying flags of freedom would you need to arm yourselves! That’s an American right not yours!” Alfred wagged his eyebrows confusedly, naive to the reality of the situation. 

Francis was a little surprised at this discovery, the American who arrogantly announced his omniscience in the every topic surrounding the English gentleman did not know of such a large portion of England’s past. 

“You’re telling me you don’t know?” It was unsettling to the American to see Francis this serious about anything, even his signature rose wilted a little. It also peeved Alfred off that Francis apparently knew something about Arthur that he didn’t. Although if anyone was closer to Arthur than Alfred it was Francis (for time purposes, which although irritated Alfred he couldn’t do anything about) but the fact Spain also seemed to be clued in really didn’t help. 

“Of course I know! I’m the hero I know it all!” A misleading confident laugh but Francis wasn’t fooled. 

“Those leather gloves are relics from England’s.... privateering.” Francis quipped quietly, taking America aside calmly to where he knew that no one could over hear. 

“What are you talking about you pervy Frenchman! England isn’t a pirate!” Far too loud for such a sensitive topic, Francis shushed Alfred desperately, eyes darting around in case any countries were to over hear. 

“No he isn’t, he was though.” Memories dimmed Francis’s usual enthusiasm, “before you existed I mean.” 

Alfred argued loudly, such a cool and crazy fact about England had to be impossible! And if England was a pirate he would know, obviously since he and England were ‘like totally close bro’.

“That’s because it wasn’t cool!” Francis hissed, the American attitude was sometimes fun but right then it was not, “why do you think the Italian brothers are so scared of him? And it’s not because of his horriblé vests.” 

“Nah France bro, Artie is too soft he couldn’t scare a fly plus he could never hide something like being a pirate from a hero like me!” 

Francis coughed out a dry laugh, “soft? You have no idea and you’ll find Arthur’s pirate era is a grey area that no country in their right mind would bring up. Perhaps you’ll find that your ‘Artie’ hides more things from you than you’d think.” And with that the cryptic Frenchman swept out of the room, shoulders tense and eyebrows furrowed. 

America half heartedly called after him only to make up his mind. If no one would talk about pirate England he’d see for himself. 

A few days later Alfred busted into Arthur’s sitting room armed with loud greetings and a righteous aim. “Hey Artie-“  
“It’s Arthur, how many times have I told you stupid American.” Arthur sneered over his cup. Really, how Artie could be a pirate, a swash buckling pirate who won the hearts of fair maidens with his suave and charming demeanor Alfred couldn’t see. No, his Arthur dressed in soft but formal clothing, shiny brown shoes, his very aura was a warm domestic one, dripping with honey and the scent of burning candles and brewing tea. Sure the messy haired blond had a bit of a temper but it was loaded with hollow threats and endearing insults. 

“Artie Artie send me back in time with all your doo hickey magic stuff!” Arthur paused mid sip, peridot eyes darting up with renewed interest.  
“I thought you said you didn’t believe in my abilities Alfred.” He settled his China teacup daintly, his porcelain completion flushing with the heat. 

“I-I’m giving you a chance to prove them to me!” Alfred felt a little guilty at manipulating his Arthur but sacrifices had to be made if he got to see Artie’s ‘pirate era’, as if that even happened, stupid France. 

“Okay, when and where do you want to go?”  
“1660 England!” The answer was immediate,  
“No.” Alfred pouted before he spouted his next lie.  
“Francis had a lover in that time and he asked me to go meet him so please, apparently I can buy the final and unreleased comic from him!” England’s eyes glossed over as he tried to recall this fantasy lover, but he snorted at his fruitless attempt, accepting it as it was. Alfred sighed in relief at the visible acceptance of the lie. 

“Okay Alfred I’ll do it but you must promise me something.” Alfred nodded vigorously, excitement buzzing.  
“Don’t go near the docks, please.” Arthur abandoned his snug armchair, grabbing Alfred’s larger hands within his own. This was the first time Alfred had seen Arthur look so concerned over something so awesome! So in a typical American style, Alfred agreed readily but shook off the warning. 

 

The preparation for the time traveling took a few days but when it was time Alfred found himself standing in Arthur’s basement surrounded by ominous green light. 

“I will transport you back within 3 days no negotiating, I can’t do anything to help you during those 3 days.” Arthur twitched uncomfortably, not finding any solace in Alfred’s insatiable buzzing, “if-if you do find yourself in... danger run. I don’t care if you want to be the hero Alfred, run.” Harsh advisement. 

 

Not hearing a word of it Alfred soon found himself in the corner of a pub. A blinked away the whiplash, soon taking in the spacious inn. He was sitting alone but in front of him were many drunk patrons, spread unevenly across the tavern. His clothes were slightly ruffled but Alfred took no notice, too busy absorbing his bustling environment like a child on Christmas. Rattling from his uneven seat he approached the bar, behind which a filthy bar man with an untended beard was wiping. 

“Dude you know a Arthur Kirkland round here?” The reaction was instantaneous, the barman sized up the blue eyed American, not questioning the foreign clothes. 

“Look kid if you’re one of the French lot get out of here, that ol’ Frenchie boss bastard of yours already left with his 4 fingers intact, that’s generous kid.” The bar man’s dark unmoving eyes scorched into Alfred, dampening Alfred’s mood. 

“4 fingers?” He must be talking about Francis Alfred concluded. 

“Yeah, the other 6- you know what kid, I don’t deal with morons or Frenchies, get your frog ass out of here.” The bar man gestured to some other burly men who curtly removed the American annoyance. The bar man never answered Alfred’s question so he decided to just search for this ‘pirate Arthur’ by himself. 

 

And that’s how Alfred ended up at the docks of Great Britain after 4 hours of searching and watching people scuttle away at questioning.


	2. Chapter 2

shoot sorry I have too many books, I actually had no idea I posted it on the wrong story. The embarrassing thing is I actually didn't know where this chapter went


	3. Chapter 3

The search for his pirate England was taking far longer than he had planned. Alfred could feel the hunger creeping up on him after hours of flitting around the town screeching at locals. Those locals, once seeing the almost quivering man producing pitches at inhuman frequencies approaching them practiced the English age old art of the 'if-you-don't-look-for-too-long-it-wont-be-your-problem'. This art is more common in cities, however as a seaside town that bordered the largest dock in England during the time, the look was perfected so well Alfred had to check he wasn't a ghost. 

This is why when the thick tendrils of crimson wove out from the cover of a nearby alley the locals only increased their walking speed, stepping lightly around the pooling fluid like it was a mildly repulsive accident akin to spilt milk. Something you didn't want on your shoes but certainly nothing to be alarmed about. Alfred felt his last hamburger churn, unable to shed his idealistic hero façade and accept the reality that these people were ignoring the soft whimpering soaking into the blood. So he did what Alfred does best, announce his entrance at a volume that required no megaphone and crash the scene. 

"Your hero is here never fear!" In the alley Alfred had just swung into were 5 men, each of which entertaining heavy marring and even heavier weapons. The victim sat in the middle of the group slumped in his own blood, gurgling gently on the red ribbons shifting down his chin, disturbingly reminding Alfred of a thick treacle. The man whose life poured from his lips like cheap beer stretched his lips, acknowledging Alfred's entrance. The men did not react similarly. One of the men sporting a blood shot eye was the first to reply to Alfred.   
"What do you think you're doing?" Gruff and unmelodious, strangely not matching his appearance if one were to disregard his blood shot eye. Each of the men looked to be scrubbed clean to an extreme even though their situation, clothing and accents contradicted it. 

Alfred hadn't noticed, "Saving and being a hero dude!" 

By their fighting style it was clear the men had fought before, and more importantly, often. The dynamics of the ruffians were incredible and it was that abnormal display of teamwork and synchrony that had Alfred on his knees, disregarded blood weeping through his modern trousers. The American had held onto his strength through the time travelling, obviously looking at the large dent he had left in the wall after missing one of the men. The fighters had been slippery, not for a moment was Alfred offered a opening to throw his strength around. 

A smokers cough caught Alfred's throat, but he refused to yield to it, after all, it had been the blood-eye guy's knee that sent him to his knees and coughing on the damp alley air. 

Thin strips of ice balanced on his tight throat, an apparent familiar act for the men around him as their shoulders rolled back into a dominating confidence. The blood-shot eye guy turned away from the kneeling blond, "stupid son of a- the Frenchie is dead now!" the blood eye guy, as Alfred was now nicknaming him, looked tempted to strike him for a moment before reconsidering and leaning over the slumped corpse and digging out the man's hand from under his bodice. 4 of the fingers were swiped and the job was done. 

Wordlessly the men brought the American to his feet, bruising fingers kissed his abused skin. Alfred protested, loudly. His protests continued the entire way to a classic pub. The combination of the people ignoring his cries for help and the silent but efficient transportation of the tall, built American was beginning to both concern and irritate the hostage. 

The flying cockerel looked and was very average inside and out. From the outside, the darkening light gave character to it's otherwise boring windows, painting it a lovely amber. Alfred knew it was just a reflection of the lamps inside, but from a distance one could almost see a dull liquid gold lapping greedily at the escape route, printing itself onto the drunkenly placed cobbles of the road. 

As gently as pirates could, Alfred was escorted into the pub. The chatter lathered into the drink swimming air fashioned itself as white noise. Alfred always hated English pubs, they reminded him of a time he was completely reliant on England, a time that branded his efforts to be England's equal as pointless. The gold of the windows were a illusion, but the feeling of warmth they promised arrived when Alfred saw a familiar figure at the back of the pub and fortunately for him, he seemed to be being escorted in that direction.


	4. Chapter 4

Blood eye and co's confidence seemed to take a swan dive, something Alfred would have noticed if he had not been fixated on the fast approaching figure of a lounging England. 

They were only a meter away from England now and Alfred could clearly see what he couldn't from the pub's entrance. The golden light hung from Arthur's ears, obediently framing his face, beading the ends of his blond hair into a strange imitation of flames. The peridot eyes Alfred had come to adore were vehemently hidden from him by the flames, but whatever the men opposite saw in them was nothing if not coldly smouldering. The white chatter that had hummed as a friendly backdrop dropped soundlessly. The blood eye guy stood patiently, clearly accustomed to being ignored by the red coated Arthur. Alfred was not.   
"What the hell Arthur?" The rapier was long enough to be hefty but elegant enough that it whistled through the air. Alfred would have commented on how Arthur had got such a long timey weapon but he, surprisingly, remembered where he was. 

The arm Arthur had slung over the side of the booth had drawn the sword casually, but his eyes which met Alfred's revealed the real emotion behind the movement. The men at the booth had not moved, looking on in a mixture of alarm and anger. A stranger's eyes. 

Alfred went to speak again but the blood eye guy was waved in as the next to speak, "Cap, the frog died before we could-" Arthur moved like his sword, a snake. Blood eye's chin was securely within Arthur's gloved grip, daring him to finish the sentence. Clicks ticked from within the man's mouth, specifically under Arthur's fingers. Naively, Alfred wondered to the origin of the clicks, not noticing the wincing of the men surrounding him. 

Arthur spoke, his accent thick and deep, gliding over the words with the tenacity of a politician "Could what?" Irritation touched his brow, dragging blood eye to his seated level. "The information!" the man ground out between the loosening teeth. 

Sighing in irritation, Arthur removed his hand, tugging his glove down habitually. He gestured for the man to continue despite the teeth now moulding into a gate to his throat and blood dribbling from his torn lips. "This... boy interrupted us." 

Finally the attention of the party was bestowed on Alfred, who had been watching the scene, bewitched. Arthur touched the side of his face delicately leaving a smug of blood as he took in the hostage. 

"You called me Arthur." There was no question posed, only a statement. Alfred had momentarily forgotten it was his England that was talking to him.   
"So what you son of a bitch! Arthur you've gone mad!" The American announced the pent energy of witnessing such a mild brutality making his voice rise. Fortunately for him, the pub had been emptied the moment Arthur had waved his hand.   
Arthur regarded him sagely, the blood resting on his cheek dutifully. The sting on his cheek made Alfred physically recoil, landing awkwardly on his back. 

Arthur had never hit him, not even when he set his antique carpet alight, not even when he had smashed Arthur's favourite teapot. The hit had been hard enough to make his face flush and his teeth sting. Arthur's expression was one of disgust, twisted beyond Alfred's recognition. Something heavy settled in Alfred's stomach as Arthur's sword pushed against his sun toughened skin like a pin to a pillow. "Who do you think you're talking to?" If Alfred had any sense he would have grovelled at the Captain's feet, kissed his suspiciously stained shoes. Instead Alfred stayed true to Alfred. 

"Arthur stop this isn't funny dude!" the pressure became unbearable.   
"How did you come across this name, Arthur?" The pirate countered, leaning his weight into the hilt of his rapier. Alfred scratched at the wood peeling floor, writhing out for help or escape. The gold poured into his eyes as they rolled back at the pain. 

"Captain! The lady needs boarding, the frogs have skipped." The pressure lifted. Arthur's expression didn't.   
The orders were delivered with a strict and practiced air, carried by Arthur's unwavering tone of impatience, "You, deal with the men upstairs," punctuated by the flourish of his rapier, "you, clean yourself up you look filthy," he had been speaking to blood eye, who although on the verge of screaming in pain and dropping to the floor began to wipe the escaped blood from his mouth robotically, "and you, take this thing to the lady, his knowledge needs to be investigated." 

Alfred was already being lifted off the floor before Arthur had stopped speaking, protesting but not as obnoxiously as before. Now he had met Arthur, pirate Arthur, he felt conflicted whether to follow this path and learn more or escape from whatever dark secret he had mistakenly pursued. So he more quietly followed the group as they stalked to the entrance of the pub, pausing only to throw a farewell to the unfazed bartender.

The burly men who had marched upstairs caused an unholy amount of screaming and crying to erupt, and one by one the symphony of desperation fell out of tuneless harmony. The pounding on the stairs however implied the movement wasn't over just yet. A young man with jet black hair and wild eyes flung himself down the crooked pub stairs, his words incoherent but his target clear. Arthur. Alfred went to warn his Arthur, to tell him to move. But the collapse of the attacker stopped him. The black haired man lay on the peeling floor in a pose resembling that of a broken doll. That is, after all, if dolls had their neck snapped by bored children. 

"Its a shame I have no time to play today." Captain Kirkland regarded the broken doll, bored by its stillness. "Let's go home men."


End file.
